“Go on, please,” she said.
“I must first,” said Freyberger, taking a parcel from his pocket, “ask you to look at this.”
He handed a photograph to the girl.
She looked at it and gave a short, sharp cry, as though some one had struck her.
“Müller!” she said, holding the thing away from her with a gesture of terror.
Freyberger took it and replaced it in his pocket after Hellier had glanced at it.
“You recognize it as the portrait—”
“Of the man who executed the bust of my father. Oh, yes, indeed, I recognize it. His face is burnt upon my brain. Were I to live a thousand years, it would be there still.”
“Now,” said Freyberger, “I do not wish to pain you, yet I must say some unpleasant things. You know that in the eyes of the world at the time of this affair, M. Lefarge appeared guilty.”
“Alas!” said she, “in the eyes of the world my dear father must appear as guilty as he did then.”